My fiancée went to Jamaica for a girls trip, and when she came back, the woman I loved was gone.
Her body was in our house.
Her clothes were in our closet.
Her engagement ring was still on her finger, catching light every time she reached for her phone.
But Margaret herself felt hidden somewhere behind her eyes.
For eight years, I had believed I knew her better than anyone.
I knew the tone she used when she was joking, the way she went quiet when she was angry, the little cough she made before telling a lie to spare someone’s feelings.
I had watched her become my best friend, my partner, my future wife.
We were three months away from the wedding.
The invitations had already gone out.
My mother had bought her dress.
Her father had cried during our engagement dinner and told me he trusted me with his little girl.
Our venue deposit was nonrefundable, and our refrigerator was covered in color-coded notes about flowers, seating, tastings, and music.
So when Margaret told me she wanted one last trip with Victoria and Elise before everything became wedding chaos, I did not object.
She deserved a break.
That was what I told myself.
Victoria and Elise were old college friends.
They were louder than Margaret, flashier, the kind of women who made every brunch feel like a reunion show, but I had never considered them dangerous.
They hugged me when they came over.
They called me boring in an affectionate way.
They told Margaret she was lucky.
The night before the flight, Margaret packed like she was preparing for two climates and three personalities.
Swimsuits, dresses, sandals, little gold hoops, a perfume she only wore when she wanted to feel expensive.
I sat on the bed and watched her fold a white linen dress.
“That one looks familiar,” I said.
She glanced down.
“I wore it in Miami.”
“You wore it the night I proposed.”
Her hands paused for the smallest second.
Then she smiled.
“Then it has good luck.”
I believed her smile because I wanted to.
Love makes certain things easy to ignore.
The morning she left, I made coffee while she checked her passport for the third time.
She was excited, restless, almost too bright.
At the door, she wrapped one arm around my neck and kissed my cheek instead of my mouth.
“Text when you land,” I said.
